


Curling Like Pink Tea Cups

by lunabee34 (Lorraine)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Abortion, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-07
Updated: 2009-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/pseuds/lunabee34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been trying to write about this topic for nearly ten years now, and I finally wrote something that I didn't feel should immediately go in the garbage.  Thanks to <a href="http://kitty-poker1.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://kitty-poker1.livejournal.com/"><b>kitty_poker1</b></a> for all your encouragement and kind words about this fic.  You are very dear to my heart.  Thanks also to <a href="http://secondverse.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://secondverse.livejournal.com/"><b>secondverse</b></a> for writing "Skin Through the Trees" and kindly talking to me about her experience of writing it.  Finally, thanks to <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=crazydiamondue"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=crazydiamondue"><b>crazydiamondue</b></a> for asking Yin to unlock the fic for me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curling Like Pink Tea Cups

I took the title of this piece from a poem by Anne Sexton.

_Ghosts_

Some ghosts are women,  
neither abstract nor pale,  
their breasts as limp as killed fish.  
Not witches, but ghosts  
who come, moving their useless arms  
like forsaken servants.

Not all ghosts are women,  
I have seen others;  
fat, white-bellied men,  
wearing their genitals like old rags.  
Not devils, but ghosts.  
This one thumps barefoot, lurching  
above my bed.

But that isn't all.   
Some ghosts are children.  
Not angels, but ghosts;  
curling like pink tea cups  
on any pillow, or kicking,  
showing their innocent bottoms, wailing  
for Lucifer.

 

Anya knocked on the door of Buffy's house and waited. After a few moments, Joyce opened it. "Hello, Anya. Are you looking for Buffy? She's at the Magic Box. I think they're having one of their—oh, what did Buffy call it? Right. Scooby meetings."

"I know. That's why I'm here, actually. Can I talk to you?"

Joyce smiled and opened the door more widely. "Sure. Come on in." She shut the door behind Anya and headed for the kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink? I was just making a cup of mint tea."

Anya leaned against the kitchen island. "Oh, no. Thank you."

Joyce poured hot water from the kettle into a pink cup shaped like a tulip. She measured some loose tea leaves into a silver, mesh ball and dropped the ball into the water to steep. Anya sat quietly, watching the wisps of steam make twining columns before dissipating. She realized Joyce was patiently waiting for her to break the silence, so she hurriedly said the first thing that came to mind. "That's a nice cup."

"It is, isn't it? One of the potters we showcased at the gallery last month made it for me as a thank you gift." Joyce took a sip of tea. "Now, what's on your mind?"

Anya hesitated, then blurted, "I'm pregnant."

Joyce set down her cup. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure. I took several pregnancy tests. They were all positive."

Joyce sat down at the dining room table and motioned for Anya to do the same. "Is it . . . is the baby Xander's?" she asked.

"Yes. I haven't had sexual intercourse with anyone other than Xander since becoming human."

"Have you told him?"

Anya looked down at the table. The wood was scratched along the edge, a jagged scar on the darker patina. She ran her finger lightly over the irregularity as she spoke. "No." Joyce began to interrupt, but Anya cut her off. "I know I have to tell him. I just . . ." her voice trailed off.

Joyce patted her on the arm reassuringly. "What are you going to do?"

"Get an abortion. Maybe. I don't know. I want to do the right thing." Joyce was pressing a napkin into her hand before she even realized she was crying.

"Anya, I can't tell you what to do. This is your decision to make. And Xander's. Do you want me to be there when you tell him? I'll help you both any way I can."

Anya wiped her eyes again on the crumpled napkin. "No. I'll tell him. Just, promise me you won't tell anyone. Not even Buffy."

"I promise."

"Thanks, Joyce." Anya set the damp napkin on the table next to Joyce's cup. "You know, I did this before for women who made wishes. Magicked their husband's girlfriends pregnant." She watched Joyce's fingers curved around that pink bloom, _tap tap_, then lay flat and still against the cooling porcelain.

~ ~ ~

Anya closed the cash register and filed away the receipt. The door shut with a jangle of bells, and the shop was blessedly empty again. She tried to concentrate on completing the purchase orders for some of the shop's staple herbs, but she couldn't focus. She felt strange—bloated, tender, nauseated. For some inexplicable reason, her nose had been bleeding all morning. The top of the wastebasket was covered with wads of tissue paper—her own personal Rorschach ink blots.

Anya heard the bells above the door ring again, and she forced a smile for the potential customer. When she realized the newcomer was actually Willow, she allowed her face to go slack. "Oh. It's just you."

"Nice to see you, too, Anya." Willow dropped her book bag on the table and started unloading books. Some of them looked very old, their gilt titles leaving golden smudges on Willow's hands. She walked behind the counter and took down several glass canisters of herbs.

"What are you doing?" Anya protested. "You can't just take those. You have to pay like everyone else."

Willow rolled her eyes. "Giles won't mind. I want to work on a protection spell for me and Giles and Xander to wear when we patrol." She paused. "Well, you, too, I guess. But mostly, I'm worried about Xander getting really hurt. Lately, he's been . . . crazed. Trying to take on demons that're way too strong. What's going on with him?"

Anya looked at the neat rows of figures on the order form and willed herself not to break down in front of Willow—

_ "You don't have to . . . We could try to keep it. Maybe."_

"Xander, I can't do this alone. I don't know anyone. I don't know how to care for a human child. I don't understand what it means to be human myself. I'd be at the mercy of others, dependent on charity."

"You wouldn't be alone. You'd have me. And Buffy and Willow and—"

"Your friends can barely stand to be in the same room with me. You think they're going to like me more when I'm responsible for ruining your life?"

"It wouldn't be like that, Anya. They'd—"

"And what will happen when you leave me? I've seen this play out before, Xander, thousands of times. What will I do when you're gone?"—

"Nothing," she said so brightly her teeth hurt with the effort. "Nothing's up."

Much later, when she was taking inventory of the magical relics in the storeroom, Anya heard Willow say to Buffy, "Xander's being uberweird. He's starting to freak me out. I think he and Anya are having problems. I knew she would make him unhappy."

Anya opened one of the boxes on the shelves, but the object within smelled so strongly of decay that she had to rush outside and vomit. When her body was done, she leaned against the wall of the shop, the bricks warm and solid against her back.

~ ~ ~

Anya folded her clothes and placed them in the chair. She wasn't certain what she should do with her underwear. Her bra and panties embarrassed her in their neat pile of lace and satin so she stuffed them into the leg of her jeans and sat on the edge of the examination table to wait.

She'd gone to a mandatory counseling session yesterday. But no one counseled her or gave her any advice. Instead a nurse asked her the date of her last period and wordlessly left a stack of adoption brochures on the center table. Anya had looked around at the other women in the room. One of them, a girl really—Anya didn't think she could be more than fifteen—tried to make conversation. "How'd you know you were pregnant? Me, I knew when I started craving lettuce. I took a head, salted it, and ate it like an apple. That's when I knew," the girl had said.

Earlier today, Anya and Xander had walked past a knot of protesters, with their signs and their bullhorns and their rosaries. One of them had pointed at her and said, "You're just beginning your torment, young lady." Anya had felt Xander's muscles tighten under her hand, but he'd said nothing, only opened the door for her.

Now, Anya waited nervously for the doctor to arrive. When he finally did show, everything went very fast. He spread some cold jelly on her stomach, and she watched as he discussed the ultrasound with the nurses. Then one of them slipped a mask over her face, nitrous oxide for the pain. But Anya thought something must be wrong—with the machine, with the dosage, with her (maybe nitrous didn't work on ex-vengeance demons)—because the pain was unbearable. She tried to close her legs against that intrusion, but someone pried them apart and held them. She could hear the doctor yelling, scolding her like a child. "Come on! Be still! You're making this very difficult for me."

Then the pain was over, leaving in its wake an overwhelming nausea. "I have to throw up," Anya said. One of the nurses handed her a bed pan and went back to cleaning the equipment. When she'd emptied her stomach, the nurses still didn't look her way so Anya sat quietly, the plastic kidney bean cradled in her lap like an offering.

Before Anya was allowed to leave the clinic, a nurse handed all the women in the recovery room a stack of papers—exit forms, instructions for post-operative care, pamphlets on psychiatric services available in the area. As she opened her packet, an aide poured her a Dixie Cup full of juice. Anya looked around the circle of other women, at the grim lines of their mouths, at each of their hands curled around a pink paper cup and bent her head to read.


End file.
